


A Measure of Pain

by laconicisms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Masochism, self injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laconicisms/pseuds/laconicisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The higher they go, the harder they fall. Six years down the line, and Castiel's guilt is eating him alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Measure of Pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [9_of_clubs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=9_of_clubs).



> Written for for the Balthazar exchange. Originally posted [here](http://spn-balthazar.livejournal.com/44131.html). I picked prompt #4: _[Six] years after 6.22, Cas is human, the Winchesters have forgiven him, everything has slowly settled into a better/normal/easy pattern._
> 
> Title is a reference to John Lennon's song [God](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9UTCnMjml0). (Listening encouraged. :D)
> 
> Yog-Sothoth is one of the Outer Gods from the Cthulu Mythos.
> 
> Balthazar is a variant on Belshazzar and means "Baal protects the King". "Baal" in Biblical usage refers to various local deities, not the god of the Old Testament, and is thus usually seen in the context of "false god".
> 
> The reference to saffron is taken from the Heptameron. Thanks to architeuthis for pointing me in the direction.
> 
> Many thanks to clwright2, kalliel and naatz for betaing and asking all the right questions. This fic wouldn't be what it is without you. <3
> 
> The recipient wanted it put ten years past the end of season six, but I ended up putting it at six years post 6.22 because it fit better.

Castiel is not a hammer, never has been. He is a screw, all twisted and small, lost in a sea of nails and rivets. They rattle around in their box, push at him, make him tumble and curl further and further into himself.

Castiel is a screw, and the world is a hammer.

\---

"You don't fit," Dean says underneath his breath. They're in a bar in a small town somewhere in the mountains. The town's population is made up of workers and their families, the local saw mill the only employer and the reason they're living there in the first place. Castiel fingers the sleeve of his coat and ignores Dean. "Seriously, man, you stick out like a wookie in a Stormtrooper barrack."

The words are spoken lightly, but there's a sense of expectation underneath.

"It's cold," Castiel replies, even though it isn't. The weather couldn't be warmer in these parts – it's summer – but Castiel is often cold, even when he's sweating.

Dean hums. From the corner of his eye, Castiel sees him exchange a look with Sam. "Right," he says. "Sam's a big boy. Let's go find some place to camp." He claps a hand on Castiel's shoulder and steers him back out of the bar. There's no motel in this town, but they've seen an abandoned shack on their way here. Castiel leans into Dean, stealing some of his warmth.

Dean, as always, lets him.

\---

Angels are abstracts; they're ideas. The idea of "messenger", the idea of obedience, of strength, of glory, glory to the Lord. Castiel is the idea of saffron – the smell, the taste, the feel, the look. He is the idea of Thursday – Thor's Day. Thunder's Day. The distant growling rumble that warns of an oncoming storm; the crack that splits the air like an angry shout; an admonishment to those who'd disobey. Castiel is all that, and more.

\---

I am God.

You will obey.

You will be silent.

Quiet.

 _Quiet._

They scream inside him, pounding against the inner walls of his grace with fists and paws and claws and shiny white spheres that burn even an angel's grace.

I'm no angel. I'm God.

\- Borrowed power. Stolen power. We know all, Castiel. You took our power; now you must bear it, and us. -

Sights explode inside his head. The here, the now. The then, and visions of a terrible future.

And sounds, always sounds; Castiel is _vibrating_ , shaking like a drum as he struggles to keep them all in and separate.

But he's losing himself to their hunger and their growing agitation.

One day, there will be nothing left of him.

\---

"It's not a thing. It's the idea of a thing,"the man says.

They listen; they watch. Silent observers to life.

"I don't get how humans can be so close to the truth and yet so totally wrong," Balthazar remarks. They're inside a garden, watching a man walk up and down, his disciples following like a flock of well-trained geese.

"They don't have the capacity to understand," Castiel replies. They've had this conversation before. It progresses along the same well-trodden path. He doesn't understand why Balthazar insists on doing this over and over.

"They have enough to get this close. All they need is a little nudge in the right direction."

"Balthazar." And this, too, is always the same. As the second in command of the garrison and Balthazar's superior, Castiel should admonish him - has done so in the past, in fact - but all to no avail. Balthazar persists in nudging at the boundaries, always just a step over the line but never so far as to warrant more decisive measures. Yet shouldn't this persistence itself be counted as heavily?

"I'm just saying," Balthazar says, brushing up against Castiel's own shapeless form, "that a little sharing of ideas isn't such a bad thing."

"You will not take a vessel," Castiel intones as he has so many times before. "Or make contact." And you will not, he thinks, use your vessel to join a symposium and gorge yourself on wine again. This tendency to "bend the rules", to take a straight line and make it convex – why, Castiel wonders. To what purpose?

"You take all the fun out of existence," Balthazar replies, but his focus is on the youth who shows himself most eager for the man he follows, hanging on his every word. The same young man who is also - as far as Castiel can perceive – a potential vessel.

Temptation.

If Balthazar were to take the young man, there would be no way to keep him out of Raphael's hands. Best to correct his behavior now before it's too late once more.

\---

"This is fun." The flesh wavers, swerving left and right as he waves its limbs, pointing a single digit at the tables overladen with wine in golden goblets and locusts and dates and plums, and a million things more.

"You have a mission," Castiel admonishes as silently as possible. A window breaks regardless, but the humans notice neither the shattering nor Castiel's voice. They're being too loud.

"You know. I don't think...think this - this is too bad. Wine."

Castiel hisses. "The king must make the proclamation. He must renounce the ways of old; _you_ must renounce them."

But he doesn't, too caught up in the festivities, in the drinking of beverages, the singing of songs - and none that praise the Lord either - and the company of courtesans that pull him into their arms even as a vase breaks from Castiel's furious whisper. Castiel's comrade has been corrupted by his surroundings. He has been tainted. So Castiel must do the best he can to fulfil the objective. He slips around the royal vessel, silently, unseen, and burns words into the wall even as the body of Belshazzar raises its hand to toast the heathen gods.

Mene, Mene, Tekel u-Pharsin

\---

 _In puniendo ira absit._ Anger must be far from your heart when you punish. Castiel doesn't feel anger, doesn't feel the fury of the righteous. He feels love. He feels concern. Balthazar's grace burns underneath his ministrations; he writhes. And always, always he focuses on Castiel, and Castiel gives his whole attention in return.

"You must obey. You must listen. For our Lord. For our brothers and sisters. For our leader." And finally, "For me."

It's always these two words that have the greatest effect. Balthazar ceases struggling and bears the rest of his punishment with calm acceptance and an emotion Castiel can't decipher, but which he knows is directed at him.

When the punishment is complete, Castiel soothes the grace he had torn and shredded only moments before. The action is counter-intuitive, but he cannot help himself.

"Don't." Balthazar commands. "It will heal on its own. And until then it will serve as a reminder."

And I need it.

\---

On the way to the abandoned shack, they stop at the only grocery store in town. Dean purchases a six pack of beer, several cans of dry food and toilet paper. Castiel shadows him as he strolls down the aisles.

"Looks like a pretty straight forward case."

"Yes."

"Pretzels, yes - no?"

Castiel stops short. "I--"

"That's a yes then. If Sam asks, it was your idea."

"It wasn't."

Dean turns around, opening his mouth and then closing it again when he notices Castiel's quirked lips.

"After almost four years spent as a human, I'm no longer curious to experience every aspect of it." Castiel pauses. "Also, I've had pretzels before. Several times."

"So you like them. Great; I'm getting them for you."

He can't win.

\---

The first soul to leave him is that of a vampire, which had not been killed by a Winchester. Castiel has always been vaguely aware that there are other humans hunting down creatures - Bobby Singer, for one - but he finds himself a little surprised nevertheless. It will be the last thing he feels before an eternity of agony that lasts perhaps an hour.

There's a rupture in his grace; a crack. Then another one and another. They burn as they open, burn even more as one soul after another squeezes through, fraying the edges, cracking him open wider and wider. A deluge of pain.

And they shout; they laugh. They taunt him behind the wards he has erected, the ones that will let the souls out, won't let them back in. The crowd grows thinner both inside him and outside the wards - they're racing off, delighting in their freedom.

The last to leave are the glowing spheres. They hurt the most.

\---

 

"Try some of these grapes. They're seedless. Much better."

"I need the weapons."

Balthazar hands him a cube of cheese and a single grape stuck on a toothpick. "Go on."

"The weapons, Balthazar. I need them for the war." Balthazar drops the toothpick back onto the plate and leans back until he's pressed up against the back of the armchair, canting his head and staring at Castiel from beneath lowered lashes.

"Say 'please'. Ah. Or better yet, don't say anything at all. You're good at that."

Castiel scowls at him. "I don't underst--"

"Of course, you don't. When do you ever?" He gets up from the chair and paces to the end of the room and back. "Do you know what it was like? After you left?"

Castiel opens his mouth. He doesn't know what he will say, but Balthazar doesn't give him the chance either way. He starts to speak, changing the pitch and inflection of his voice until it sounds eerily like someone else's entirely.

"'First your commander, now your _ex_ -commander. Is the whole garrison tainted? What think you, Balthazar?' Well, guess what I thought, Cas." There is fury in Balthazar's eyes. His grace boils with it. "My good pal Cas. Leaving without saying a word to me. Me, _Balthazar_."

\---

The archangels aren't pleased. As soon as Castiel finishes writing the words on the wall, Raphael descends from heaven. He reaches inside King Belshazzar, pulls out the angel inside him and races up to Heaven.

Castiel hears nothing of his comrade for a year.

"This is your comrade. His name is now Balthazar - like his vessel." The angel, Balthazar, moves towards the garrison and takes his old place in the ranks. "A too human angel should carry a human name."

It would serve as a reminder - for all of them.

\---

"Yes, you," Castiel growls, and something snaps inside him. "You, who had already gotten too close to humanity once." A second time and there would have been no saving him, especially since Castiel was no longer in a position to do so.

Balthazar freezes. "I see." There is pressure building inside these four walls as Balthazar struggles - doesn't struggle much actually - to keep his grace inside. "Three. Do you know what that number represents?"

Castiel throws him an irritated look. "The Trinity."

Balthazar clicks his tongue and glares at him. "No. It represents the number of angels who didn't look down on me, after." The glass table groans and strains. "You used to be one of them."

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are, but you know what? I'll help you. If Raphael wins, I won't get to enjoy this life much longer anyway."

A moment later, the room is empty.

–--

This time you will perish, the voice of Yog-Sothoth, He Who Knows All, pronounces. Castiel ignores it, ducks as a car sails over his head. The Elder God has left him with the others. The words are merely an illusion, or maybe, a delusion. Castiel has fooled himself more times than he likes to remember. He can tell now.

He still replies.

I will take her down before that.

One less monstrous soul haunting the earth and wracking havoc. Castiel cannot die until he has corrected his mistake and destroyed all the souls he had set free barely two years ago. He must not.

You will.

Shut up.

The next car hits him square in the chest, and Castiel goes down, trapped underneath tons of human machinery. He thinks his spine is broken. It will take the rest of his grace to fix that, though it is unlikely he will get the chance.

Two little feet touch down on top of the car. "Are you broken now? Broken toys should be thrown away. You can't keep them." The lips of the borrowed child are drawn into a pout. Lilith sighs. "And I liked playing with you, too."

When the shot comes and Lilith screams in agony and topples to the ground, it is hard to say who is more surprised. Castiel doesn't think it's himself. He feels too dazed.

It might be Sam, who is slowly approaching, flicking a cursory glance at Castiel before freezing. "Cas?"

"What?" another voice asks.

Or maybe it's Dean.

\---

Balthazar never goes too far – until he does.

\---

"I'd never betray you."

Castiel waits for the crowing of a rooster. It doesn't come. Balthazar's words echo inside his mind, heavy and painfully loud. Back and forth they go until they're all but a jumble of sounds, bombarding him. It's an attack and Castiel must defend himself.

The blade slides into the center of Balthazar's grace with ease. It's a familiar sensation.

Balthazar's eyes widen, and grace starts to spill out, brushing past Castiel. He aches at the feel of it.

Too familiar, by far.

\---

Castiel turns the faucet. The reaction is instantaneous. The demon screams as it is drenched in the water of the lawn sprinkler, the one Dean has modified by cramming a small crucifix inside the hose.

It was an ingenious plan, and it worked well against the foe.

Outside the house, Sam is giving Dean a thumps-up. Dean grins at him, and does what seems to be a victory dance.

\---

"Another reality."

"Yup."

"You want to put them in another reality."

"That's the plan."

Castiel isn't sure one could call this a plan. An insane and ridiculous suggestion, maybe.

"They'll be safe as houses. Winchestery houses, but houses nonetheless."

"Which means they'll fall on something or something will fall on them." Castiel grunts.

"That would happen anyway."

Balthazar has a point. Castiel drifts over to the window that overlooks the Mediterranean.

"They'll be bait."

"They'll accept it. Hey, have my plans ever failed us? Cas? Have they?"

Castiel supposes not.

\---

When Castiel fell for the first time, back when the three of them had been fighting to stop the Apocalypse, the worst thing that happened to him was his stay in the hospital after he cut the sigil into his torso.

It wasn't the pain that tormented him nor the sudden drop in power. It was time. He had time to think, but no way to _do._ Castiel had done his part and all that was left for him was to wait.

\---

This is the end of the hunt. Sam is stretching, moving his shoulders and shaking his head. A slight smile plays on his lips. Dean toasts them with his beer bottle, leaning back in his chair. He throws a wink at the passing waitress. Then his face turns solemn.

"To us."

"To us," Castiel echoes, throat constricted.

There's still one more, the voice of Yog-Sothoth reminds him.

I don't need you to state the obvious, Castiel answers. It would be futile. Yog-Sothoth cannot be killed.

There is only silence in reply.

"Dude, I think that chick over there likes you."

"Dean."

"No really. She's been staring at you for the past ten minutes, Sam."

Sam huffs, but he throws an inconspicuous glance at the young woman at the bar. She notices and lowers her eyes, watching Sam from under her lashes. Castiel frowns, surprised that he recognizes the gesture.

 _Balthazar._

Sam huffs. "Okay, maybe."

"No. _Obviously._ And I think she's got a friend." Dean waggles his eyebrows.

"I shall go outside," Castiel informs them, rising from his chair and heading towards the back of the bar, where a second exit is partially obscured by a folding screen. The night is balmy. Still, Castiel shivers and pulls his cloak tighter around himself.

\- They are so alike. -

Go away.

\- Will you seek forgiveness by proxy? -

Go. Away.

\- It cannot be undone, you know. -

 _Go away!_

Castiel lets his right fist fly, hitting the brick wall with repeated strikes. It does nothing to shut up the laughter of the voice that is not there, but the cracking of bones in his hand overshadows the sickness that is crawling up from the middle of his breast. Briefly, at least.

A hand closes on his wrist, pulls until Castiel is facing Dean Winchester.

"I killed him," Castiel whispers.

Dean frowns, confused, and doesn't say anything for a moment. It's clear he doesn't know whom Castiel is referring to, and Castiel doesn't wish to tell him.

After a moment, Dean's expression changes from confused to weary. Or resigned, perhaps. Castiel cannot read faces well. "You're responsible for a lot more than that." His gaze comes to rest on Castiel's mangled hand. "But you cleaned up after yourself."

To the extent that was possible.

"Yet not everything is 'fixed'."

Dean snorts. "Yeah." He encloses Castiel's hand with his own, holding Castiel's gaze, and squeezes, just a little. "It never is."

\---

There are frequent reports of glowing spheres in the sky. Sam wants to investigate, but Dean is strangely reluctant each time he brings it up.

"Fairies," Dean mutters. "They're worse than witches."

Castiel doesn't understand, but he sides with Dean. Yog-Sorthoth is too powerful.

\- And if you went, they'd know you'd lied to them. Dean would know. -

And the thought of that happening makes something twist inside him.

\---

"Let go." Dean's hand on his wrist is warm despite the heat that permeates even this small shack, and the grip he has on Castiel's coat with his other hand is strong. He pulls it off and Castiel is left without protection.

"He was under my command."

"I know."

But you don't, Castiel thinks. Dean Winchester knows all kinds of pain intimately, but this is the one he will never understand. "I killed him."

"Cas," Dean says, expression smoothing out into the blankness that Castiel first perceived far down below, among the tortured cries of the damned. Dean moves.

The back of Castiel's head hits the wall separating the two rooms, and he feels his brain rattle at the impact. The wood groans and screeches, but Castiel is all but oblivious to it. Dean is pressing up against him, hand tightening on his wrist to the point of pain, and Castiel's breath is cut short as Dean closes his mouth over Castiel's own. The pressure on his ribcage is doing its part to cut off his air supply.

Dean, Castiel thinks, eyelids fluttering shut.

 _I need more._

He reaches towards Dean with his free hand, not sure what he's going to do, but needing to do something. Dean slaps his hand away and grunts and bites down on Castiel's bottom lip. But human teeth are dull and _not enough._ Castiel clenches his hand into a fist and hits the wall behind. It creaks again, and with a sudden crash Castiel is falling backwards. Dean lands on top while pieces of wood rain down on both of them.

"Shit." Dean coughs. "Cas?"

"I'm fine." There's a dull, throbbing pain in his ankle. Most likely it's twisted.

"Let me check for injuries first."

 _"Dean."_

"Does anything hurt?"

"No." Castiel knows that he's made a mistake as soon as the word leaves his lips. Dean's eyes narrow and he begins to check Castiel over. "Dean."

 _I need. I deserve...._

Dean finally reaches Castiel's ankle and, after hesitating briefly, turns around and slaps Castiel across the face. "Idiot. You don't want permanent damage." More of it, that is. Dean puts a hand on Castiel's chin, angling his head until they're staring into each other's eyes. "Next time tell me if there's something wrong."

After a moment's hesitation, Castiel nods.

Dean rises and heads outside while Cas is left sitting on the floor, blinking. Dean had slapped him. An open-handed slap, the kind given to an unruly child. Castiel touches his throbbing cheek. He feels like something has shifted inside of him, yet he cannot say what.

The door to the shack opens and Dean comes in, dropping down beside Castiel. "We don't have any ice." He pours water from a bottle over a T-shirt and wraps it around Castiel's ankle. It's slightly cool. Dean hands him the bottle. "I'll run into town in a moment, try to get some. Try not to break any more walls." Dean's tone is neutral.

Castiel closes his eyes. "It won't bring him back," he whispers. He could have brought him back when he still had the power. He could have done a lot more, too. Better yet, he should not have done anything at all. Castiel isn't God and could never have been; he didn't have the capacity to understand when he was an angel. He doesn't have it now either, but he knows that he knows very, very little.

"Nope," Dean says and squeezes his shoulder. "But you'll bear it."

Castiel pulls his coat towards himself.

I will.


End file.
